Repression
by SerenityJane
Summary: The 21st century is far too repressed for Jack's taste. He thinks he has a cure . . . Features whole team, inc Myfanwy. Warnings for slash and het scenes, a swear, and small spoilers for Cyberwoman and Countrycide. Dark fluff! Licorice cotton candy!


**Title**: Repression 

**Author:** SerenityJane

****

**Fandom:** Torchwood

**Warnings:** Slash & het sex scenes - not too graphic

**Characters: **Whole team, with brief appearance from Myfanwy  
**  
****Summary:** The 21st century is far too repressed for Jack's taste. He thinks he has a cure . . .

**Rating:** M or NC17

**Disclaimer:** I've not even dreamt of the possibility of the thought of owning Torchwood or turning a profit through my writing crossing my mind!  
Err . . . makes sense if you squint. Anyway, not mine!

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"So, if you ever wondered what the innermost, repressed desires of the modern-day Pterodactyl are, here's your answer." Jack murmured to himself, standing alone on his usual high perch, watching Myfanwy dive down at the water of the Bay, over and over again, pulling up just before impacting with what he thought _she _thought was another flighted dinosaur. 

How Myfanwy thought that other Pterodactyl was managing to fly upside down beneath the murky waters, let alone survive in the pollution, was a mystery.

By the flirtatious tilt of her head and the dulcet tones of her squawking, Jack realised that Myfanwy thought her reflection was a male of the species. Or she thought it was a female, in which case Ianto should be proud to have raised a hatchling more open-minded than the majority of the Earth's dominant species. She was trying to woo a potential mate, anyway.

Jack grinned to himself, sliding a hand into his pocket and caressing the smooth glass vial stored there. It was only part full - he had poured most of the liquid into Myfanwy's food bowl earlier.

"So, that's the animal testing over with." Jack said to himself, pleased.

"Now to move on to human trials."

"Hmm . . ." Jack murmured to himself as he watched the security footage playing out on his computer monitor. "If I'd known Gwen was that flexible . . ." The speculation stopped there. He wouldn't have tried anything with Gwen, no matter how tempting. He had steered far clear of happily partnered people after meeting Rose and the Doctor.

He leant far back in his chair and threw his legs up onto the desk, then folded his arms behind his head, never removing his eyes from the entertaining scene before him.

Gwen jumped off the balcony railing, grabbed her partner's shoulders during her descent, and pulled him down to the concrete with her. She landed with her hands and feet flat against the ground, crouched on the platform. Owen was less fortunate, landing hard on his back with a dull thud. He lay there panting breathlessly for a minute, trying to recapture the air forced from his longs.

Gwen scuttled crab-like down the stairs, until she was beside Owen's prone form.

"Cooper," Owen gasped, as Gwen stretched a leg over his body, straddling his slim waist, "What the fuck are you . . ."

His protests were drowned out as she leaned forward and thrust her tongue down his throat, and the slight glimpses of movement Jack could see through the moving veil of her hair made him wish he had enforced the 'Workplace Health and Safety' guidelines by making her wear a hair-tie. He was fairly sure there was some piece of equipment here that would be counted as heavy machinery . . .

Owen pulled his head away after a minute, "You do realise we're in the Hub, don't you?" Owen asked, the movement of his pink lips heavily exaggerated by their swelling. "On the stairway?" He continued when Gwen didn't answer, though she did sit up slightly. "In full view of . . ." Owen's eyes widened and his complaints trailed off into a strained moan as Gwen moved her now-free hands down the front of Owen's body, shifting her hips back slightly to allow her fingers access to the zipper in his trousers.

Despite the soft-hard thud of Owen's back impacting again and again with the corner of the stairs as Gwen rode him to the finish, Jack suspected that he was not groaning from the pain.

He glanced to the top left-hand corner of the screen, and saw Tosh looking down at the pair from her workstation, leaning so far forward in her chair she risked toppling down the stairs after them, cat-pink tongue sticking out from the corner of her mouth.

He glanced again at Gwen's arching back, then sighed, standing up and heading down the stairs. Probably best to retrieve her mug before Tosh's brain started functioning again and she decided to test it for drugs.

That should have been it. Jack knew it worked, now. It worked surprisingly well, especially considering he was working from a vague memory of a twelfth-grade chemistry experiment, some of the synthetic ingredients in the original mixture had had to be substituted because they hadn't been invented yet, and, honestly, chemistry isn't really Jack's thing.

"Anti-repression medication." Jack said out loud. As he held the re-filled vial up, the light filtered through the green contents and lapped along his skin, making it look like he was rotting. "Something this century desperately needs."

He capped the vial and placed it in his pocket, then walked out of the lab and through the empty Hub.

Jack had already sent the others home for the night. Well, he had sent Tosh home, anyway. Gwen had all but ran out the door the moment the clock struck five, embarrassment giving her heeled boots wings. Owen had followed close (too close) behind. Tosh had been thrust out the door minutes later, still looking longingly over his shoulder in the direction of her computer. She probably hadn't had a chance to copy the security footage yet.

Ianto still hadn't emerged from Archives. Jack paused for a moment before the hallway that lead to the lower sections of the base, considered going down and looking for him . . . 'Just to see what he's up to,' he thought to himself. 'He was keeping a cyber-woman down there, after all. Who would blame me for checking up on him?'

Jack snorted. He'd been around long enough to know when he was lying to himself. Ianto had proven his loyalty to Torchwood, or at least this part of it, by helping Tosh escape the cannibalistic villagers. He had Jack's trust. No, Jack wanted to see him for another reason . . .

He turned away from the hallway and moved up to the kitchen, getting two mugs from the cupboard and placing them on the bench. He stood, hands on his hips, staring down the metallic monster squatting by the sink. "I've operated a spaceship 30,000 years ahead of this time. I've made a fully-functioning subatomic cannon in ten minutes flat using nothing but spare parts from two run-down droids. I held off a horde of marauding Daleks, contributing to the salvation of the entire human race. Damned if I'll be defeated by a coffee machine."

Twenty minutes later, the floor strewn with coffee beans, air permeated with the scent of those trampled beneath his feet., the benches littered with soggy brown filters and expensive-looking empty coffee bags, Jack turned back towards the machine and raised his red-scalded hands in salute, admitting defeat.

"Would you like a hand, sir?"

Jack twisted around to see Ianto standing in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. He thought he saw a flicker of what could have been amusement, irritation or disdain travel across Ianto's features as he surveyed the room.

Jack dismissed the automatic response that popped into his mind, instead deciding to try the damsel in distress angle. He glanced down sheepishly at the floor, then murmured "Please," and stepped to the side, gesturing for Ianto to move further into the room, being sure to hold his hands so the burns were clearly visible in the bright light. The next ten minutes were spent with Ianto instructing Jack on how to use the machine, and from his choice of words Jack suspected he may have memorised the entire manual and be reciting it from memory. He suppressed a smile. He'd never thought the term 'percolate' could sound sexy until he heard it said with Ianto's thick Welsh accent. He thought the man may have noticed his reaction, as well. Why else would he have found an excuse to say it so many times?

The lesson over, they sat at the kitchen table, each with a perfectly-made mug of coffee in hand.

After a few minutes of silence, Jack said, "Hey, Ianto, we don't have any chocolate-chip, do we?"

Ianto raised an eyebrow slightly, but murmured, "I'll just check. sir."

Whilst Ianto's head was buried in the cupboard, Jack quickly slipped a hand into his pocket and withdrew the vial. He glanced back over at the Archivist and saw he was beginning to stand upright. "I'm sure I saw some down there the other day. Bottom shelf, far right."

Ianto sighed slightly, and Jack realised he thought the sudden desire for cookies was an excuse to get him to bend over. He continued to search, anyway. Jack tore his admiring eyes from the welshman's ass and turned his attention back to the flask, removing the stopper from the end, then reaching over and pouring half the contents into the mug.

Sneaking another glance in Ianto's direction, he poured the remainder in and quickly withdrew his hand as Ianto began to stand. "No luck, sorry, Sir."

"Oh, don't worry about it, Ianto," he replied brightly. Too brightly, he realised, as he saw the blue eyes narrow slightly.

"Are you sure? We do have some butterscotch -"

"No, it's fine. Just sit down and drink your coffee."

Ianto hesitated a moment, then walked back around the table and slid into his seat opposite Jack.

There was another silence as they both sipped at their coffee. A silence that gave Jack a chance to think, and feel a spark of guilt. . . 'It only releases repressed desires,' he told himself reassuringly. 'If Ianto doesn't want anything to happen, which I very much doubt, then nothing will happen. If, on the other hand, he does wants me, I'm doing him a favour. Suppressing emotion is never good for you.'

"Say, Ianto. Have I ever told you about that time I . . ."

Ten minutes into the story, Ianto's coffee was half gone and things were looking promising.

Ianto's eyes were half-closed, though Jack could still feel his intent gaze. His lips were slightly parted, and Jack could have sworn he could see the tip of his tongue poking slightly through his teeth. One hand was still wrapped tight around his coffee, but the other had begun to trace small circles on the table, fingertips caressing the ridges in the wood. He had stirred in his seat five times in the last three minutes.

". . . so I said, 'I don't know who the father is, but he sure as hell didn't get those eyestalks from me.'"

Ianto smiled, actually smiled, and Jack saw that he was right about the tongue.

"So anyway," Jack stood up and stretched. "Probably time for you to head home, Ianto."

He walked around the table and stood next to him, intentionally pressing against his side as he reached down and retrieved the cup. Ianto's gaze followed the mug, and he turned in his seat to look up at him, unintentionally moving closer. 'Or maybe not so unintentional', Jack thought, swallowing, as he saw the expression on Ianto's face.

Jack moved back, breaking contact as Ianto stood. Their fingers brushed as he took the mug from Jack's hand, and he turned away, placing it in the sink. When the water began to run, Jack sighed. "That could probably wait until tomorrow, Ianto," he said suggestively, without much hope. It went against Ianto's nature to leave anything left dirty. When they returned to the Hub after the incident in the countryside, he had refused to let Owen even touch him until he after he had a shower, despite his broken ribs and concussion.

Resigning himself to the inevitable, Jack leaned over the table and reached for the cup he had left there before. He froze at the feel of warm hands on his hips.

"There's something I've been wanting to do to you, Jack." Ianto murmured, accent even thicker than usual. "For a long time."

There was a rustle of fabric as Ianto stepped closer, and Jack could feel the warmth of him, just millimetres away.  
"Well, why didn't you?" Jack asked. He inhaled sharply as one of Ianto's hands left his hip, slipping up underneath his shirt and running across his stomach, up to his chest.

"It never felt right, before. Not until now."

The other hand moved downwards, toying with the waist of his trousers, exploring fingertips slipping just under the waistband. The first hand began to caress the skin to either side of the gun halter strapped across his torso, occasionally moving up to tweak one of his nipples.

Jack tried to stand up, impatient for the feel of warm, silky skin beneath his hands, his mouth. He had been waiting a long time for this.

Ianto leaned further forward, his body pressed tight against Jack's, pushing him down against the table. The hand that had been running across his chest withdrew, leaving coldness in its wake. Something niggled at the back of Jack's mind, but was dispelled as Ianto pushed against him harder, and his hand slipped lower. He groaned, and Ianto chuckled softly, breath blown gently past his ear.

He turned his head to the side, and Ianto took the invitation, nuzzling his mouth against Jack's jaw. Jack could feel him smile against his skin.

The lips withdrew for a moment, and words were whispered, softly and seductively against his ear. "It's time for you to die, Jack."

The words didn't register until he felt the tip of something cold and hard press at the base of his neck.

"Ianto -" Jack began, not understanding. He tried to twist around, but Ianto had him pinned down well.

"_Lladdedig ei chi_, Jack," Ianto hissed softly. "You killed her."

The gun coughed, and there was a momentary burning against his neck followed by a wave of agonisingly familiar pain.

'Maybe repression isn't all bad,' Jack thought as he drifted into the dark. It was his last thought for quite some time.

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A/N

Thanks to senorcoconut1 over at livejournal for correcting my Welsh!

Please comment - love to know what you guys think!

PS 

Only got 11 votes for my poll at the time of this posting - was hoping for a few more . . . looks up at you pleadingly  
If you want me to write a story featuring the death of your least favourite Torchwood main character, pls head over to my bio and place a vote!


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